


The Three Year Pantomime

by Zhangers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Marriage Law Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhangers/pseuds/Zhangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the Marriage Law Revocation Act Paragraph A, your marriage is officially annulled until further notice. “Annulled,” she mused, just above a whisper.  The corners of her mouth crept upwards and she fought down a laugh “Like a real marriage. I prefer repealed. The Prophet is using ‘revoked’.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Curtain Call

_21st of November, 1999._  
  
The cup that trembled in her fingers was chipped and faded, with a mismatched floral saucer. The table was pockmarked and rickety. One of its legs ended in a textbook prosthetic – a _Potioneer’s Annual_ from the 70s, so faded and dusty that its grey cloth cover seemed one with the linoleum beneath. There was an oily yellow stain on the ceiling over the stovetop that couldn’t be Vanished away anymore and a long, scraggly crack running from the windowsill to the empty light socket. Everything smelled faintly of mildew, old leather, and something sour without a name that could be found nowhere else in the whole world.   
  
It all seemed peculiar and faintly unbelievable, while it had been second nature only yesterday, or even a few hours ago. Like breathing out and breathing in, she had somehow gotten used to it – until time faded its inherent oddness into nothing. It had thrown its sands into her eyes, had blinded and trapped her, had worked at her edges until, finally, she had taken the shape of her vessel. She was stretched and thin, wiry and twisted like a vine in the dark, reaching its frail tendrils to no place and for no purpose.  
  
 _Human beings could get used to anything, could be made to get used to anything._  
  
The thought came to her out of nowhere, from years and years ago, when she was almost as tall as the chest of drawers and magic was a pack of cards or a string of bright silk handkerchiefs. She was staring towards the front where the grainy screen showed bronze-skinned actors with crocodile tears and water squeezed from a sponge for sweat. The voice like a fat, aloof uncle at Christmas, full of sweeties and sermons, was saying “the pyramids of Giza were a wonder of human ingenuity… and human perseverance.” In her ignorant way she had wondered how the slaves did not die, and then had answered, in equal ignorance, that the truth of it was – had to be – that human beings could be made to get used to anything, in time. Now she knew better and worse.   
  
The spell that held those Muggle slaves lasted until they perished and so was only temporary, like hers. Three years was time enough to forget the life before and yet no time at all. She brushed the grit from the corners of her eyes and found herself neither blind nor bound nor worn down by them after all. She looked as if for the first time and found that every detail had become stark and contrastive in its unnaturalness, its uncanniness. The world around her jarred because she had become jarring, as she had always been.   
  
And so, defeated or near enough, time abhorred her and for its last trick slowed to a trickle. It had been five to the hour for longer than was fair. She watched the hands as they ticked and tocked unwillingly. The chime sounded, was drowned by the sound of a crack somewhere in the street behind her.   
  
She had chosen her seat so that she didn’t have to see when the door creaked open, which it did on cue. Enter the player that she knew too well, in his invariable fashion. She recognised his footsteps, loud and staccato in his hard leather boots, and the swish of his voluminous robe. It was a dramatic entrance: black figure in the slanting reddish light of early evening, casting a shadow too long for the landing floor to contain. He saw himself as a Byronesque figure, and in the beginning she had bought the antihero act. Now it seemed another false detail.   
  
He seemed to pause in the doorway, his eyes no doubt upon the new installation she had placed in the hall. Then there was the rustle of parchment, which was her cue. She put her teacup down with the softest of clinks and waited. Her heart began to tom-tom in earnest in her chest, despite all the promises she had made to herself. It was a hard habit to break, whatever this feeling was that he created.   
  
He crossed the space between them in two steps and imposed his presence upon the opposite chair. It made an ugly squeaking noise as he dragged it out across the sticky linoleum.   
  
She remarked to herself, meaning nothing, that there would be more gouge marks. He left them everywhere. Her right hand found the spot on her left wrist of its own accord even though the bruise there had long since healed. She kept her eyes fixed downwards, on the half-empty teacup, as she gathered her breath for the unpleasant ordeal that had been scripted for them both.   
  
“News,” he opened. He always spoke to her in monosyllables when he could.   
  
“Oh?” she answered in a good impression of an even voice with just a little hardness to it. Years on the receiving end had made her quite proficient at it.   
  
“Big news,” he countered, so that she could practically hear the eyebrow rising. “It’s been—”  
  
“—repealed,” she finished for him.   
  
“—annulled,” he had said, at the same time.   
  
“Annulled,” she mused, just above a whisper. The corners of her mouth crept upwards, and she brought them down with some difficulty. “Like a real marriage. I prefer repealed. The _Prophet_ is using ‘revoked’.”   
  
She pushed her prop across the table at him. The headline read:

Marriage Law Revoked After Wizengamot Investigation

  
  
The letters were huge and towering. There were no pictures. Underneath the story of the year there followed a sad litany of its scattered offspring:

**One In Four Marriages Product of Love Potion – Department of Marital Affairs Embroiled in Death Eater Scandal – Marriage Law Victim Comes Forward – Marital Rape Allegations Spread – Marriage Law Offspring Crisis – Chudley Cannons Blast Into Cup Lead**

  
  
He slid a thick sheaf of parchment over the newspaper, covering its bold headline with a mass of tiny, neat script in Ministry purple.   
  
“The official notice,” he declared, in a voice entirely devoid of colour.   
  
He scraped the chair out again with another sharp, excessive gesture, did not bother pushing it back in, and made his rather hasty exit to the right.  
  
She listened to his footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time and then to the shutting of his bedroom door in something just below a slam.   
  
She poured herself a second cup of tea and put in just the right amount of bracing lemon before dragging the thick sheaf towards her.   
  
Like all of their joint mail, he had had it sent safely out of her reach and had been at the package already with a penknife and a sharp eye.   
  
The first page was a covering letter. It bore the logo of a witch and wizard, intertwined like serpents at the tail, their crossed wands raised proudly above their heads. Their profiled faces bore the same features twisted into the same empty smiles. It was more than familiar, and like everything, she was only just now seeing how grotesque it was.   
  
She cast her eyes down the page.   
  
_Mr Severus T. Snape, Mrs Hermione J. Snape (née Granger)_  
Number 33 Spinner’s End  
Ancoats  
  
Care Of:  
Mr Severus T. Snape   
Shop 41, Knockturn Alley  
  
21st October, 1999.   
  
Dear Mr and Mrs Snape,   
  
We write to inform you that under the revision of the Marriage Law Act, all marriages made after the date of the 1st of September, 1996 in satisfaction of the said Act must be subject to review by the Department for Domestic and Marital Affairs (DDMA).   
  
According to our records, your marriage, lodged on the date of the 19th of February 1997, falls within this category. Under the Marriage Law Revocation Act, Paragraph A, your marriage is officially annulled until further notice.   
  
Each party is required to take the following steps:   
1\. Cease cohabitation within Seven (7) days. Each party is to confirm their address with the DDMA within the allotted time.   
2\. Report in person to the assigned Act Enforcement Officer at the appointed time for counsel  
3\. Complete the Marriage Details Form Sections 1 to 18  
4\. Attend a Marriage Appraisal Hearing at the appointed time  
  
Failure to meet with any and/or all required actions will result in immediate disciplinary action under Paragraph F of the Marriage Law Revocation Act.   
  
Domestic Department Officers will visit each party within the seven (7) days to confirm the observance of the habitation requirement. This officer will give details of your appointment for counsel and appraisal hearing. He/she will also collect your Marriage Details Confirmation Form.   
  
We enclose the following:   
1\. The Marriage Law Revocation Act and You: All the Facts You Need to Know   
2\. I’m Annulled – What Next? A Survival Guide  
3\. The Marriage Law Revocation Act and Property Settlement   
4\. The Marriage Law Revocation Act and Spousal Abuse  
5\. Marriage Details Form  
  
Any additional queries and/or disputes may be made to the Domestic Department Officer in person and/or through correspondence to the DDMA.   
  
Yours Sincerely,  
Dorian Mathews   
Department of Domestic and Marital Affairs  
Ministry of Magic   
  
She read the thing again, just to be sure, and found it contained nothing more or less than could be expected. Underneath it was another letter, identical, and after that a series of twinned forms. She peeled hers from his and tucked them neatly into her robes. As ever, the feel of firm parchment in her hands had reassured her, and her legs barely trembled as she crossed the room with silent steps.   
  
In the corner of the hallway was her old school trunk, placed purposefully where he had seen it and, she hoped, had been taken a little aback. It had been packed since the morning and contained every single item that was properly hers. It had taken less than three hours to clear out as many years of her life, and now there was no trace of them in this house. Except in the yellow room, of course. She had stood in front of that shut door for a long time, her hand poised over the handle and even turning it a quarter circle, but in the end she did not go in. A shudder went through her at the memory, and she tugged her travelling cloak more tightly around her neck. Without a backwards glance, she eased the front door open.   
  
Sunset had turned into twilight, giving the filthy, damp street a blue, forbidding look. A gust of wind caught her hair, and even though it smelt of bin bags and was cold enough to make her lungs burn, it felt like the first fresh air she had had in living memory. She turned to the south, where Spinner’s End dipped, and she could see the town sprawl out before her, like a postcard. Lights were appearing in the distance, pinpricks of electricity winking out of the semi dark one after another. There were streetlights and headlights and furtive lights from between curtains belonging to thousands of people living in thousands of homes that were not this one. And beyond them, much further south, she remembered the one that used to be hers.   
  
Another gust of wind slammed the door behind her, hard, and the resounding noise was like a herald.   
  
A tiny smile, and then a tiny step.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Ministry Man Cometh

_30 th of November, 1999. _

It was a shame.

Snape had taught him once upon a time. Their class must have been one of his first, in fact. He remembered how it was returning to school after a year’s absence. War had come down hard and seemed to cut life into two. Something was either Before the war or After the war, and those two periods could never mix or barely even be spoken of in the same breath.

It was somehow easier to accept the many changes then to question them. There were empty seats in the Great Hall, new faces at the teacher’s table, and certain names that were only mentioned in hushed voices. There were reasons, but did you really want to ask them?

Severus Snape was one of those new professors. He had been skinny, greasy and a little twitchy, wearing his oversize academic robes like a fancy dress costume. There were rumours, but at that time there were rumours about practically everyone. Still, there was something that lived behind those black eyes and reared its flashing, unpredictable head from time to time. ‘Skeevy’ or ‘dodgy’ were the words Charity used, and he was inclined to agree. It was worrying, especially as he wanted to be a Mediwizard then and needed NEWTs potions. In the end, Snape proved to be just as adequate an instructor as Slughorn, though not nearly as pleasant, but such compromises were made After.

He graduated in ’83 with reasonable marks, all things considered. They were still tidying away Death Eaters, and Muggle Relations was buzzing on everybody’s lips. The world was recovering, the future promised to be brighter, and he found himself trading the well-trodden path for a chance at ‘the vanguard of the modern wizarding age’.

That was one of Charity’s terms. She was something of a star then, with her six Outstanding NEWTs. She was also a Prefect, his Gobstones Captain, and very pretty.  He was totally smitten with her, of course, at least for a little while.

Border restrictions were lifted at last that year, so for Christmas they spent a month together in Muggle Europe. It was to see the sights, but they seemed to spend all their time in cold railway stations and cheap hotels, talking by the hour. Well, she talked. He tended to listen, whilst pretending not to notice the way the slanting light caught on her chestnut curls, or the shapes her lips made when she pronounced certain words, or the look in her eye when she mentioned particular contentious subjects. She brought along her record player, and when she was tired of talking they listened to her collection of Muggle records. She played “Do they Know It’s Christmas” until the vinyl gave out, with a look on her face that he would never quite understand. He only thought the song was alright.

St Mungo’s had already replied offering him an apprenticeship, but at her say-so he tore the letter up, letting the pieces fall from the Rialto Bridge into the black water beneath. _Guss, you and I can make something big, something right_ , she had said. Looking into those caramel eyes, he had no choice but to believe her wholeheartedly.

By February he was loitering around the Atrium with her, and a few other bandwagon jumpers and general gawkers – a young Rita Skeeter among them - waiting to ambush the Minister just weeks before election. The Sunday Prophet that week had Charity’s face beaming from the cover. He was in that photograph too, but somewhere behind, a little out of focus and alternating between grimacing and hiding. In ’84 they were both working as juniors in the new Muggle Relations department under Fudge, with whom she had had the occasional lunch to which he was not quite invited. In ’88 she had moved on to Hogwarts and her ‘true calling’, leaving him to hold the fort that she had won.

’91 was the year that the Boy Who Lived returned, and with him unsettling whispers. By ’95 war was looking certain, and Charity was talking in earnest about the Marriage Law, ‘the second wave’ and making her mark in history. She said she needed her dependable deputy again, to do the footwork for her grand idea while she was busy ‘forming the minds of tomorrow’s leaders’. Naturally he was more than happy to drop everything just for her. The law was a reality by the following summer, and he was installed in his new desk in the Department of Domestic and Marital Affairs .

And then, of course, their troubles started.

First there was the Brockdale Bridge incident; then Amelia Bones, Head of the Magical Law Enforcement; Poor Emmeline Vance, taken out in broad daylight while protecting the Muggle Prime Minister; the Dementors breeding up and down the country; giants sighted in Somerset; a botched Imperius attempt on one of the Muggle Minister’s people; and, of course, Fudge’s sacking.

All of this rather swept the Marriage Law aside, and the new Minister, hard-faced Rufus Scrimgeour from the Auror Office, was not exactly the type to care much about the ins and outs of dominant and recessive genes. Without orders to the contrary, they simply carried on, as if the country wasn’t falling into tatters around them.

 He would never forget going to work that morning to find the Matchmaker working for the first time. ‘A marvel of wizarding Arithmancy and Muggle genetics’, she had dubbed it, but for the first time in his life he found he could not quite agree. Whirring and whistling like a mad kettle, it spat out lengths of red ticker tape with dozens of names, birthdays, deadlines, occupations, hair and eye colour, parentage, education, and many other details that he had no business knowing. He glanced through them, prepared in theory for what he would find, but came to a dead stop at the very first one.

 _Hermione Granger, Hogwarts student. Born: 19 th of September 1979. Bloodline: 7th Generation pure Muggleborn. Skin colour: White. Hair colour: Brown. Eye colour: Brown. Education: Ten (10) Outstanding OWLs, enrolled for six (6) NEWTs. To be married by: 19th of February, 1997._ _Desired number of offspring: Three (3) or more. Incentive: 5000 Galleons per child._

She was still in school and not even of age yet, but the Matchmaker had already fixed a future for this bright young woman. Mediwizard, professor, potioneer, interpreter, activist, tinker, tailor, candle-stick maker: there were many things she might have been, but to the Matchmaker did not care about any of this.

He couldn’t quite share the excitement of his colleagues over this obscene invention. There were more of them in the days that followed, picked out and priced seemingly at random by this queer, cruel system that he worked every day but did not understand.

There were complaints, of course, from parents, teachers, and even Dumbledore, but those went to the Head.

“Laws are laws,” said Dorian who was simply not to be questioned. “And besides, the Matchmaker doesn’t go back on its word”.

This was literally true. They had made the Matchmaker a binding magical contract, and though none of the participants had entered of their own free will, the punishment was, as always, death.  And so, with regret but much less guilt, he wrote back to all the anguished girls and boys, parents and teachers, that they were all very sorry, but there was no alternative. Blame the former Minister, if you will. And plenty did, for all sorts of reasons.

He opened a file for each Muggleborn, and into it placed the petition letters as they came. Hers had easily been the thickest and full of the most alarming names. There was Vincent of the Crabbe clan, barely of age himself, volunteered by Mrs Crabbe who ‘wanted some more smarts to the family’; Garrick Macnair, by all accounts his father’s son which was enough said; a minor Lestrange, estranged from the main criminal branch, but no doubt ready to join in this time around; and Amycus Carrow, who had a three foot long charge sheet and was old enough to be her father and a half. Even sadder were the names that had not made it into the file: Ronald Weasley, who would not be of age within the deadline, though only by a few cruel days; Neville Longbottom who had a similar story; Harry Potter, the same again; Charlie Weasley, who worked abroad and did not satisfy residency requirements; Remus Lupin, who was a registered werewolf and therefore disqualified from selective breeding (and, some would eventually come to say, any breeding).

When she engaged herself to Severus Snape in January, he was almost relieved.

He witnessed their wedding himself. It was held on a frosty February morning, in the worst inn in Hogsmeade. There were no flowers, no friends, no family, no gifts, no handsome groom, and no blushing bride in her dream dress. There was only Dumbledore to perform the spell, McGonagall to hold the poor girl’s hand in case she bolted, and himself as the guest that no one invited. For a month afterwards, the Boggart in his closet wore Hermione Granger’s face. But then there were more of them to do. Avery-Smith, Nott-Ingleby, Carrow-Walton. They were all too similar.

He wondered how his Charity could have ever thought this a good idea.

On the first anniversary of the Law, he decided to ask her.

It was a balmy summer evening in Derbyshire. They had not spoken for a while, and he had practised what he would say in front of a mirror. In one hand he had a bottle of decent elf-made wine,  in the other the latest Oasis album, hoping that she would have a ‘CD-player’ and knowing that she probably had at least three.

That was the first time he had seen a Dark Mark in person.

Three days after throwing a handful of dirt on an empty coffin, Jones-Mitchell had their first child. It was a bouncing baby boy bristling with magic, and the couple, though still a little strange with one another, showed no signs of anger or heartbreak or unspeakable sorrow. He felt that he understood Charity then, and how she had birthed this mad, terrible idea. Like all revolutionaries, she knew the value of sacrifice. The Snape-Grangers of this world were the price we paid for the greater good.

That was two years ago. A lot had happened since, not least the war which had hardly been a war at all. By the time they had even noticed, the enemy was already deep within, reaching around all the soft places and squeezing. The heart of disease had been in his own department, the one that everybody had overlooked. He was almost relieved when it had all caved in only a few days ago.

All the same, a part of him felt keenly what a shame it was that it should all end like this, when it had started at Christmas time fifteen years ago, on a bridge in Venice, holding her hand as they watched the sun setting over the marvellous city.

It was literally shameful.

-o-

This and more was heavy on Augustus Highman’s mind as he stepped out of the Atrium and into thin air.

When the world decompressed again, he was standing on the neat sidewalk of quiet, comfortable Oxfordshire. It was mid-morning, and the wide, picturesque street was quite deserted. On either side were grand old houses with handsome windows, neatly trimmed hedges and wrought iron gates. Rather conveniently, he had landed near a street sign, and its shiny, black-enamelled arm told him that this was indeed Bard Mews.

“Number 9,” he muttered to no one, as he started down the street with his eyes open for house numbers.

But he hardly needed them to find what he was looking for. At the end of the street, on a corner block, was a house set quite apart from all the others. Something about the overgrown hedges, leaf-piled gutters and broken attic window told him it was the right place more than the ivy-hidden sign.

He didn’t much like house visits at the best of times – was probably still a little on what ordinary people called the ‘shy’ side – and a nervous shudder went down the length of his spine as he approached the tall gate.

It had been locked and secured with a heavy, rusty chain wound in a rather tight coil. It would be a futile task, but he made to try it anyway.  He had barely brushed his fingers against the cold, rusty metal when the air thrummed with the distinctive ripple of a strong warding charm. This was followed by a loud crackle from somewhere beside him.

“Hello?” A female voice issued from the wall to his right, faint and weary. 

“Er,” said his mouth, before the rest of him was quite ready.

He approached the source of the noise and found that the wall contained a domestic electric security and communications device, with its grill-like microphonic receiver half hidden behind a layer of thick, bare, wintry vines. He placed his mouth about three inches away from it, which was the optimum distance for most Muggle radio devices, cleared his throat, and summoned his best and least shaky Ministry voice.

 “Hello? Am I speaking to Ms Hermione Snape?”

There came an audible sigh followed by a rather hard-edged answer.

“Not anymore. I thought that was the whole point.”

“Ah.”

Actually, he had considered the problem of how to address the not-quite-married-any-longer women, along with all the other problems to come. As with the rest of it, the solution wasn’t exactly straight forward. Wizarding divorces were simply not common place.

“Ms Hermione Granger, then, if you prefer. My name is Augustus Highman and I am-“

“- the Ministry Man, come to liberate me.”

It was an extraordinary remark, dripping with sarcasm and not a little accusation. He did not know what he expected, but it was not this. A horribly cold and heavy feeling, worse than a dozen Dementors, began to grow in his belly.

 “Quite,” he all but whispered, utterly derailed from the rehearsed spiel. “So, er, if you let me in, please, Ms Granger, we can proceed with the...with the ‘liberation’.”

There was another frazzling noise as the device extinguished itself, and then a horribly loud clanking right under his noise as heavy chain loosened its coils and slithered heavily away, like a thick, many-segmented serpent. The gate swung creakily open, inviting him up the leaf-littered driveway.

He put on a suitably official face and followed the red brick road up the gentle slope, wondering what he would find at the top of it.

She was already waiting for him there, standing just inside the open doorway, with her arms firmly crossed, her lion’s mane of bushy hair, and looking quite a lot thinner in the cheeks than the teary-eyed schoolgirl he remembered. There were, he noted, dark circles under both brown eyes.  She was wearing a bright yellow apron. It was covered in white dust.

“Sorry – I seem to have caught you at a bad time,” he ventured gently.

She gave a rather sharp, violent shake of her head, as if tossing off a fly, and sent that mane of hair bristling.

“Not really. Come in.”

The stiff invitation was followed by an even stiffer step backwards.

He stepped awkwardly past her, trying very hard not to notice the alarming details all around him. The abandoned look continued onto the interiors of the house: there was a pile of letters and newspapers at least a foot high behind the door, pieces of furniture swaddled in ghostly white sheets, and a thick layer of grey dust which lingered over everything  like the fuzz on an mouldering peach. In fact, the dust was so thick that he could make out trails of footprints crisscrossing the wooden floors and cutting through the grey cover to show some of their original, handsome mahogany.

The door clicked behind him, and, when he finished jumping from surprise, he found himself staring at her expectant face. His mouth, sensing that he must say something, began to open before he quite thought up the words to put through it.

“Lovely house,” was what his mind shortcut to, with total disregard of the cringing that would follow. 

“It was my parents’ place,” she replied, as if he had not said something completely foolish given the circumstances.

A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows and she proceeded to glance past and around him. She raised one hand from its resting place inside the other elbow, only for an inch or two, and gestured around with a single thin finger, unwilling, it seemed, to unfold her arms.

“I sent them away during the war. Haven’t had a chance to clean all of it up, as you can see. I expect I’ll call them back when I’m done. With the divorce, I mean.”

“That was very wise of you.”

He meant it.  There had been dreadful, unspeakable things done to the parents of Muggleborns during the war.  He met her gaze with some difficulty and ventured a smile that wasn’t quite returned.

“I suppose you’re here to collect the forms,” she said, in a very flat voice. “I’ve got them ready. Follow me.”

He followed her bushy head past the handsome staircase and through a hallway, heading towards some bright room at the end of it whose light seeped into the darkened corridor.  It was lined on both sides with large, framed photographs. The slanting light caught the dust on the glass at odd angles, giving them an opaque, frosted look. He stole glances at them as he walked past. There was a chubby-cheeked baby dressed as a sunflower. A small girl with buck teeth and ringlets, clutching onto an enormous satchel in one hand and the coat tails of a shy, bespectacled man in the other. Taller now, the girl was reading a book on a garden bench, sitting beside a thin, mousy woman who had the same lips and nose. The family was on vacation, with bright green grass in front of them and softly undulating fields of lavender in the distance.  The girl was alone now, standing in front of an ornate Christmas tree, looking very pretty in a blue, formal gown and trying very hard not to move, although he thought he caught her blinking.

The final picture was a mystery as a single, small impact in the centre of the glass cover had sent a spidery web of cracks across the whole picture, making it impossible to see what was beneath.

“Death Eaters?” he asked, even though he had not meant to say anything. 

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Just the one,” said Hermione, quietly.

The corridor opened out into a brightly lit kitchen. There were neat shelves of neatly arranged preserves and spices, beautiful pots of all shapes and sizes hanging on hooks, and a large rack of wine bottles which took up the whole end wall. On the old-fashioned Aga stove, a kettle was just beginning to whistle. It would have been very welcoming if not for the faint smell of rot that tickled his nostrils.

“Have a seat,” said Hermione, who was attending to the kettle. “How do you take your tea?”

“Oh – thank you very much. No milk, one sugar.”

He took a seat at the family table. Lying on it, next to the vase of dried up, moulting daisies, was the pile of forms tied up neatly with red string. The sight of them made him feel extremely nervous again, and he was very glad when the tea was set down in front of him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, wrapping his hands around the deliciously warm cup.

He had no idea why he had felt the need to whisper.

“I see that you have the forms here,” he said, more loudly. “Would you mind terribly if I checked through them?”

Hermione shook her head in a sharp motion, sending that frazzle of curls flying again.

He untied the pile, struggling with the knot as his fingers had suddenly turned useless. He sifted among them, trying hard only to check the pages and not to read the answers, yet. Even so, he saw that certain boxes had been ticked in neat blue ink.

“That all looks in order,” he said, at last.

“Good,” replied Hermione.

They both took long sips of their tea, almost at the same time. When they finished, there was a long silence. Augustus supposed that he should be the one to break it. He cleared his throat. It was a horribly wet noise.

“As you know,” he said, his voice sounding a little strangled. “My visit today was not simply to collect the forms, but also to ascertain that certain requirements have been met. Can you confirm, please, that you are no longer living with Mr Snape, nor are you in contact with him through Owl post, Floo calling, or any other method of communication?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. And, er, this is a rather delicate matter, but do you feel secure in your current location? The ministry can provide security measures for any party that feels threatened by the other.”

“No thank you.”

“Very well.”

He had not meant to say this. He had meant to ask if she really felt safe and to insist that she apply for a guard from the Auror office, or at least arrange to stay with a friend. He was not sure if he believed what everyone said of Snape, but something told him that she should not be alone. But he could not say any of this. Instead, he simply went on.

“The next major step to take is to meet your Act Enforcement Officer. I am pleased to say that your case is being handled by myself, so you will be seeing a familiar face. I have arranged your first appointment to be on Tuesday next, at 11am. Is this a suitable time? If not, I’d be happy to rearrange – ”

“It’s fine.”

“Excellent. The aim of our appointments will be to clarify certain points of your marriage, as reported in the  Marriage Details Form. During our interviews, I may ask for evidence of any … issues within the marriage, which I would then compile into a file to be used by you or your legal representative at the Appraisal Hearing. This evidence must be legally incontrovertible, which means that it must be obtained under one of three circumstances: under a Vow of Truth, under grade 2 Veritaserum, or through fraud-checked Pensieve. Have you considered your preference? You need not decide that now, but it might be a good idea to begin thinking about it.”

“Pensieve,” replied Hermione, without hesitation.

“Are you sure?” asked Augustus. “A Pensieve can be very intrusive, particularly given the intimate details I would be forced to ask you about.”

He thought of having to sit through hundreds of hours of memories involving her and Snape, and also of having to ask for them, and watch her pull them unwillingly out of her head. It made him feel quite sick.

“Veritaserum is a much better option.”

It was against policy to give advice like this, but he found he did not care.

“It wouldn’t be like grade 1 Veritaserum,” he said in a rush. “You wouldn’t feel compelled to tell ‘the complete truth’ to a ridiculous degree. You would confine your answers to exactly what I asked, so you could keep your – you could keep certain details completely private, if they have no bearing on the case. Or even Unbreakable Vow would be a better option. Again, it would be a vow for ‘truth’, but not ‘the whole truth’, you see, so – ”

“No thank you,” said Hermione, looking into her teacup. “I think I’ll take the Pensieve.”

“Very well.”

He felt suddenly very heavy with dread and not a little sadness.

“Was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?” asked Hermione, pouring herself a second cup of tea.

He thought about it.

“No, not particularly.”

“Good.”

“I’ll take my leave then. See you on Tuesday, Ms Granger.”

Augustus Highman pushed his chair out rather unsteadily, apologised for the horrendous noise it made against the marble floor, picked up the pile of parchment, dropped it, and picked it up again.

He was very glad when Hermione made no attempt to show him out, and doubly glad when he was outside again, in the leafy streets of Oxfordshire.

Then he thought about how Perkins was getting on with Snape, and felt considerably less glad.

He Disapparated with a loud pop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you found my take on Charity interesting. In many ways, this entire fic came from that one line in DH where Voldemort mentioned Charity’s mad inter-breeding idea. Her character grew from there and, like Gus Highman, I became a little smitten. 
> 
> Drop me a line and tell me what you think.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Ministry Man Cometh Again

_30 th of November, 1999. _

All that Cadwallader Perkins was thinking was whether he should put in for the Unfortunate Wizard of the Year award. He had never been exactly lucky – that much was clear from the name his mother had thought a good idea – but this affair rather took the biscuit.

He had only been transferred from Misuse of Muggle Artefacts a few months ago. He had come on the promise of some ‘majorly exciting changes’ in this corner of the Ministry, and while it was certainly a ‘change’, his Head being suspended and a  pending Wizengamot investigation into the whole department was on the wrong side of ‘exciting’ in his book. It struck him as grossly unfair, when he hadn’t done anything. In fact, he was still so green in the department that they wouldn’t let him have his own Muggleborn files. How was he supposed to have violated their rights, then? Of course, they promised ‘fair dealing’ for the junior members of staff, but he knew people in Law Enforcement, and this wasn’t their style at all. He was going to get his arse dragged through the courts to be tutted at by the holier-than-thou, I-got-a-scar-fighting-you-know-who, sanctimonious, saints-among- mere-mortal types that the Auror office was made of these days. He might even get a few months in jail – all the Death Eater trials had made the Office a bit shackle-happy, from what he had heard.

In fact, he could take it further back. The whole Muggle Relations malarkey only happened because of a stupid mistake. He had forgotten to cross it off his NEWTs options by accident, and then it was too rude to cancel on a class that was already only four students strong (and Professor Burbage’s rather ‘hands on’ tutoring didn’t hurt), so he carried on with it. Then he accidentally bothered to try in the exam, somehow scoring top in the process. It was just his luck that the Ministry took him for a serious Mugglephile, fit to be desk mates with the likes of Arthur Weasley.

To tell the truth, terrible as it was to say in peacetime, the best it got was during the War. At least the work was more than cleaning up exploding toilets and silencing singing candlesticks. He invented some decent stuff under wartime protocol: the Fiendfyre Hand Dryer, which was a convenient, transportable device for fast cookery and self defence that even Squibs could wield with confidence; the Self-Directed Surgical Implements, which were preset for 10 common Muggle operations and, admittedly, might have spent a few more weeks in development; and, best of all, the Imperative Early Learning Aids, which were children’s textbooks imbued with a mild, mostly harmless dose of Imperius to decrease anti-Wizard inclinations amongst Muggle children. Of course, a few of these prototypes were later used by unscrupulous and, as it turned out, rather crooked people.

By contrast, Domestic and Marital had been run by a well-connected wallflower and a man who thought Top of the Pops was ‘hip’ and ‘trendy’ Muggle culture,  where all they did all day was check that people were bonking properly. And now it was only Pops left. Only Pops and the fornication inspectors left the ride this completely gutted wreck to the watery, prisony depths.

It was all distinctly unfair. He could have been a Mediwizard if he had replaced the soft subject with something more useful, like Herbology. Alright, perhaps not a Mediwizard, but he might have worked in Tradeable Goods, or the International Office. He noticed that none of those guys were being investigated, not even the ones that probably deserved it. Some of them were bent as bent could be.

As the glacé cherry of misfortune on this whole thing, Pops had sent him to do Snape, being too cowardly to do it himself.

“Typical,” he muttered as Floo’d into Diagon Alley. “Typical, typical, typical.”

One glance around was enough to tell him that the sorry saga was far from over. The alley was three times as busy as usual at this time of afternoon, the air ringing with scandalous and scandalized mutterings as the story of the year was picked over endlessly by those who those who didn’t have a clue, nor a stake in any of it. Here and there, groups of three or four had their teas and scones over copies of the Prophet or the Tattler, hissing ill-informed indictments or else shaking their heads in some sort of second-hand emotion. Some smart arse had enlarged a copy of today’s front page and strung it up between two lamp posts so that he was treated to Pops’s massive face grimacing nervously down. ACTING HEAD REMAINS SILENT ON MARRIAGE LAW DISSOLUTION, screamed the towering headline. Something told him that they weren’t exactly getting more popular as the days dragged by.

He pulled his scarf tighter about his face, hoping not to be recognised as he weaved his way through the crowd.

An unusually large throng in front of Flourish and Blotts caught his attention. He gave the display a glance and regretted it immediately. A huge acid green poster covered the entire window, showing a familiar bottle blonde head. Sure enough, Rita Skeeter had another instant bestseller on the way, to be out by the end of the month. Time was, in the early cretaceous, when she was in with Pops and Professor Burbage. “Friend to the cause, if not to me personally,” Pops called her. He wondered what would come out in her next doorstopper, and just how wide the splatter zone was going to be. He had been interviewed by her once, years ago, about the surgical instruments fiasco; he doubted very much that she had forgotten.

“Good thing I’m for it, then,” he muttered, to no one. “Doubt they’ll stock that in the prison library.”

“Yes, she is quite horrid, isn’t she?”

He had not expected anyone to hear, much less for an airy voice to reply, seemingly disembodied, from somewhere behind his right ear.

He twisted around, rather panicked, and found himself facing a young blonde with a pretty face but the most scatterbrained looking expression he’d ever seen.  She was holding a small pink tin which she rattled quite loudly under his nose.

“I’m collecting for the Marriage Law victims,” she said, in an unconcerned, colourless tone that seemed to have nothing to do with what she was actually saying. “Muggleborns who have had their wizarding rights violated, women who have been abused, or unwanted children who need to be placed. Would you like to make a donation?”

“Er,” said Perkins, who was thinking of just how much legal representation would cost him. “If it’s all the same with you, love –“

But she rattled the tin again, louder and closer to his face.

“It is for a good cause,” she insisted, as if he had simply not understood.

“Yeah, alright,” replied Perkins. He searched his pockets and scraped up the loose shrapnel. “Here’s a few knuts, if you want it.”

 “That’s very generous of you,” she said, even though it wasn’t. And then she was gone, slipped away into another crowd, shaking her little tin.

He would have gaped after her for quite a while longer, feeling odd and uncomfortable, if his watch had not beeped.

“Get on with it, Perkins! Tempus neminem manet! Tempus Fugit! Tempus! _Tempus!_ **_Tempus!_** ” it squeaked at its most annoying setting.

It was perfectly right - he had to get a move on, if he wanted to catch Snape at his shop, and he much preferred to meet Snape in public, even in Knockturn Alley, than at his home, alone.

 He pushed past the long queue at Fortescue’s, the window browsers at the Quidditch shop, the reverent mass at the foot of the Peace Phoenix, and made the turn into Knockturn.

Such was the power of the Marriage Law scandal that even Knockturn was decently populated, though there was a distinctly different atmosphere. It was dodgier, and not just the usual kind of Knockturn dodgy. Besides the drab, dreary and sinister regulars, the street was dotted here and there with crisper robes and shinier boots. They gathered at the fronts of shops, but they were not discussing newspaper articles. Instead, they were peering in with dirty looks and whispering ominous things under their breath.

“He should be ashamed of himself - ” one was saying as he walked past an antiques dealer.

“I swear, if I get him alone - ” hissed another at the second-hand book store.

But quite the largest gathering was at Shop 41, The Apocryphal Apothecary. This was where the infamous Severus Snape had finally settled, after all the allegations had cleared, or at least cleared as much as they ever would. It was a narrow, tall building with an ancient, peeling grey front wedged between the much more inviting Hansel’s Herbs on the right and an abandoned house on the left. A good six or seven witches and wizards were huddling in front of it, looking like a middle class lynching.

 A feeling of impending dread expanded in Perkins’s chest. He wasn’t sure who he was more worried for –the mob or the ex-Death Eater. Probably himself.

“Excuse me, please,” he said, making an attempt for the blocked doorway.

It didn’t work in the slightest.

“Ministry Official, please make way.”

He tried again, a little louder, and pushed forward with a bit more elbow. 

“Oi!” shouted the wizard he had unwitting jostled.

Heads turned and stared.

Perkins coughed in what he hoped was an authoritative, reassuring manner.

“Ministry official. Please clear the doorway.”

They didn’t.

“Are you going to arrest him, then?” asked the one he had pushed. There was loathing etched into every hard line of his ugly, contorted face. “You should, you know. I don’t care what anyone says. The Nundu don’t change his spots - once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

There were mutterings of agreement at this. Encouraged, the man grew louder and more zealous, like any drunk at the third pint.

“What’s to say he was ever on our side at all? What’s to say he wasn’t working for them all along and just switched over when we were winning? What’s to say he didn’t hoodwink Harry Potter along with the rest of them? That was a Hinkypunk trial if I ever saw one.”

There were more murmurs of support from his friends at this cheap rhetoric. Perkins fought the urge to say something unhelpful like just what it was he thought he had done during the war to warrant the use of ‘we’ which seemed to include him with the Potters, Shacklebolts, Weasleys and all the other saints. Or what precisely he objected to during the trial of Severus Snape and why he hadn’t bothered lodging his evidence during its very lengthy and well publicised proceedings. But none of this was exactly going to help the situation.

“Yeah, alright. I need to get past, so –“

“And he’s a pervert, too, to marry his own student. It’s sick. How was this allowed in the first place? And what about the other kids? Who knows how many others he abused when he was posturing as Headmaster - “

“I need to get past,” said Perkins. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

He was wearing thin on both patience and courage, but managed to bring up his last reserves of both. He drew himself up to his full, pathetically average height, and tried to sound calming and politic, like ministry officials were meant to.

“This isn’t really helping anyone, you lot crowding around like this. I have to ask you all to calm down and step away from the door. You’ve made your point, and I see where you’re coming from. Really, I do. I’m here to find out the truth and make sure justice is done. Just like the rest of you, I’m sure.”

He wasn’t, actually. Put people in groups like this and shady concepts like the truth stopped mattering entirely. The Auror office was proof of that.

“If you let me past,” he continued, soothingly. “I can start the process of investigation. If there is strong evidence of any wrongdoing, justice will be  - ”

“So you will arrest him then.”

“Well, no, that’s not what I said, is it? It’s more a process of –“

A babble of disapproval broke out and he found himself suddenly almost shouting just to be heard over it.

“It’s the law,” he pressed on. “It’s just- the law, you know. There’s a process that has to be followed. He’s innocent until proven guilty, like anyone. If you let me past -”

“Innocent until he’s fled the country, you mean?” sneered a tall wizard towards the back. 

He took a deep, calming breath and tried to remember the training that Pops had foisted on them all that morning for precisely these situations. _‘Hostile responses are more often than not caused by ignorance and uncertainty’. ‘Inform as clearly and precisely as possible to avoid escalations’._ It was easier said than done.

“There is little risk of escape,” he replied. “There is an embargo on long distance travel for all parties involved with the Marriage Law until their case is fully resolved. As you might have heard, all Apparition borders and Floo networks have been put back under surveillance for precisely this purpose. Any attempt to flee will result in a maximum sentence of six months in prison –“

“In Azkaban?” It was the cantankerous, jostled man again, with a glint of something in his eye that Perkins did not like the look of one bit.  

“Not quite. As this is a civil matter, time would be served in the civil prison. But this is very much a marginal scenario. The Department is confident –“

“Your Department couldn’t find its own nose,” said one of the witches.

“We are trying our best, madam!”

Perkins winced at what had come out of his mouth. It was true enough, but that didn’t stop it sounding absolutely pathetic.

“It’s not good enough!”

 Perkins made the mistake of meeting the witch’s gaze. Beneath the demented anger and the hungry vengeance, there was a hollow, sad look in her eye. There was the same look, in fact, in almost all the faces of the crowd. He looked away and wondered what to say. The problem was, she was right – it wasn’t good enough. But they were doing the best they can under the circumstances. Highman had put everyone on double shifts already just to keep the filing under control, not to mention all the extra work that Dorian’s sudden departure created. For it to be anywhere near ‘good enough’, they would need to magic up about a dozen extra juniors, but people weren’t exactly queuing up to lend a hand.

He was considering asking them all to ‘please move’ again when something else captured the crowd’s attention – and his.

A black shape had moved up to the dirty window and was peering out with its blurred, ghost-white face.

“Snape!” called the tall wizard, actually knocking his fist against the glass.

“O, Merlin...”

Perkins felt like the floor of his stomach had suddenly fallen by a foot or two. He slipped his wand out of its holder, although he didn’t know what he was hoping to do with it. It would be seven angry civilians against one former Death Eater. He didn’t even know where he should point it. He might point it skyward with an alarm for the patrol Auror in Diagon, but whether help would come would be a different matter.

Snape had moved behind the door, and a moment later there came the click of a key in a lock. This simple action had the most amazing effect on the mob. The pathway cleared instantly as everyone took an involuntary step backwards.

Perkins took his chance. He pushed past Mr Tall and Mr Cantankerous just as the door eased open. A black eye peered unblinkingly out from the narrow gap.

“Prof – Mr Snape? Would you let me in? It’s the Ministry, here about your marriage. Well, annulment. You know.”

The eye disappeared into the shadows. Then there was the noise of chains and bolts sliding before the door flew open, suddenly enough to make Perkins actually jump, to his shame. It revealed Severus Snape exactly as he remembered:  greasy, pale and scowling.  It was not exactly an endearing combination, though in the circumstances Perkins could understand the scowling.   

It was a narrow doorway and he squeezed past rather gingerly, very aware of the ridiculous volume of Snape’s robes and the many, many shelves full of Potion-making stuff teetering all around him in the tiny shop.

“Er, you might want to close that door quick, Professor.”

But Snape was already there. He slammed it with a deliberate gesture, setting many chains and bolts in place again with neat wand wave. The mutinous muttering outside had begun again and with another swift movement Snape reduced that to a dead silence.

Perkins unwrapped his scarf to let some air in. He was suddenly feeling hot under his necktie, even though he wasn’t wearing one.

 “Professor – Mr Snape.”

He offered his hand, but it was not taken. Instead, Snape simply stared. The unblinkingly, direct look he was giving Perkins down the significant length of his nose was deeply forbidding, and deeply familiar. He felt like he was in detention again.  Then he remembered that he was a Ministry Official, albeit from a ridiculous department, and he wasn’t the one who was more likely than not going to be in jail at the end of all this mess.

“Right,” said Perkins, trying to look respectful, polite and officially neutral. 

He let Snape have the spiel. 

“My name is Cadwallader Perkins, from the Department of Domestic and Marital Affairs. First of all, let me say how sorry I am for the circumstances of this visit. The Department would like to stress that, despite what you, er, might have heard, there will be no unfair assumptions or dispositions towards or against either party, based on any previous convictions of either civil or criminal offenses. The purpose of this investigation is simply to establish the facts as accurately as we can in regard to the true circumstances of your marriage to Hermione Snape née Granger. If your marriage is deemed to be clear of all offenses, such as spousal abuse, use of manipulation to induce marriage, illegal use of fertility or contraceptive potions,  or any other offenses which are listed in the information booklet, then you will be free to remarry once proceedings are over. The primary objective of this visit is simply to establish that you understand what is about to take place, and that proper initiatives have been taken as advised.”

Perkins looked for some sort of acknowledgement from Snape, but there was none. He had barely blinked during all of this. Perkins decided not to be bothered by it, even though it was very bothersome.

“Can you give your verbal confirmation that you have ceased cohabitation with your former wife?”

“Yes.”

 The answer came in one impatient, rather vicious snap. Perkins sighed inwardly - this would be a long, uncomfortable visit – but ploughed on.

“Very good. Can you also confirm that you are no longer in contact with her in any form, such as owl mail, Floo calling or any other methods of communication? ”

 “Yes.” Again, the response came like a puff of highly pressurised air.

“Sorry,” said Perkins. “Is that ‘yes’, you’re still in contact – “

“Yes, I can confirm compliance.”

“Ah, Good. Of course, once your forms have been processed and subject to the nature of your marriage, it may be possible for you to resume contact with the former Mrs Snape. We do request that you make no attempt to contact or visit her, just for now.”

“That would not be necessary.”

Although it was impossible to miss the bitterness and even viciousness in Snape’s voice, Perkins found this reply deeply reassuring. It implied that Snape at least was not going to challenge the annulment, like certain other people. It also meant that the department was right, about this couple at least. Although it did also suggest that the forms would be less than happy reading.

 “Have you filled in your Marriage Details Form, Mr Snape?”

A trussed up pile of parchment was produced from the many folds of Snape’s black robes and pressed unceremoniously into his hands. Perkins thumbed through the corners, counting off the pages, and trying to ignore the alarming phrases which jumped at him from the mass of spiky black letters.

“Excellent. Just a reminder that this form constitutes a truthful declaration under wizarding law, punishable by –“

“- up to seven years imprisonment. I know the law.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it only remains to tell you that the first appointment has been made for you with your Act Enforcement Officer, who will Mr Augustus Highman. He is, incidentally, acting Head of department, so you will be in good hands. It’s set for next Wednesday, 10am. Will that be convenient? It is during business hours, I’m afraid, will you be able to get away from the shop?”

Perkins glanced around at the shop and noticed, for the first time, just how dusty many of the bottles of oddities were.

Snape sneered.

“I think I’ll manage.”

“Good. At this appointment you may have to provide evidence in relation to ‘issues’ highlighted in the Marriage Details Form. This evidence will have to be legally incontrovertible, taking one of three forms: Grade 2 Veritaserum, Vow of Truth, or Pensieve. You don’t have to decide just yet –“

“Pensieve,” said Snape, in a tone that seemed to leave no room for argument.

“You are aware that this is a very intrusive method? Your memories will have to viewed by the Officer and may also be cited during the Appraisal Hearing. And the Fraud squad will have to go through it, too.”

“I am quite certain.”

Perkins thought suddenly of Pops going through Snape’s sordid memories for hours on end. He should have felt some semblance of pity, but instead he felt a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth and fought it down with some difficulty.

“Very well, Mr Snape. That concludes my business here. We’ll see you at the Department on Wednesday, then.”

Snape gave his wand another sharp flourish, sending the door flying open.

Perkins stepped through and managed not to jump as it slammed shut again behind him.

“So?” asked the cantankerous wizard.

“So what?” said Perkins, tugging his scarf tight around his face again.

“So are you going to put him where he belongs?”

Perkins hesitated.

“Not sure,” he said, truthfully. “You’ll have to wait and see. We’ll all have to see. That’s why it’s an investigation. See?”

He pushed through the crowd, ignoring their mutinous mutterings, and headed back down Knockturn Alley.

A patrol Auror was trying to move the loiterers on from the second-hand book shop, with little success. There was shouting, violent gestures and more than one drawn wand.

Perkins hurried on. Although he could not have spent more than twenty minutes with Snape, the day seemed to have grown a lot darker, or perhaps that was just the clouds which seemed to have come in out of nowhere.

Perkins wanted nothing more than a pint or two at the Cauldron before going home with a large bundle of fish and chips under his arm. Of course, he couldn’t.  Like everyone else in their sorry department, he had a night of paperwork to look forward to, just like the night before and just like all the nights to come. He wondered if he should quit. He wondered if they would let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had a good time reading as I had a fab time writing this chapter. The character of Perkins gives me joy and life. There will hopefully be more glimpses of the greater Wizarding world in future chapters. 
> 
> The Ministry Men Chapters have been light on Severus and Hermione, but next chapter is the first of the Pensieve experiences, so stay tuned!
> 
> As always, drop a review and let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter. It is intended as a short prologue of sorts. I hope you enjoyed it – next time we’ll a get a clue about how the end all started.


End file.
